


Museum

by toniisis



Category: The Mummy (1999), The Mummy Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:08:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28451421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toniisis/pseuds/toniisis
Summary: A step closer to full regeneration, Imhotep is led through Cairo to the museum. There, he has to wrestle with his humanity. Is he ready to witness what a museum contains?
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	Museum

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been inactive in the fanfic community for years (far too long really!) but I shared another chapter of Prelude on ff.net before realising everyone was using this website. After a little internal debate, I thought there’s no harm in joining in! This is the first piece I’ve written that isn’t related to any of my older writings. I hope you enjoy.

An unending ache resonated through his core. Every step hurt.

The sensation came with regeneration, he was learning, but still, some unease lingered behind his confident demeanour. Unused to the bite of fresh air after so long, he took a brief moment to indulge himself before the discomfort grew; thousands of years had passed since he had been out in the open, and so his psyche was adjusting to a new state of existing.

To freedom.

Being awoken from his grave was one thing, yet to be suddenly thrust into the world… bluntly, it was not something he was prepared for.

The sights, the sounds, the smells…

The motion that disturbed him would have been welcomed by anyone else. The simple feeling of an innocent, intangible breeze brought him no relief. Instead, the odd sensation of air and stray grains of sand slipped through strands of skin, displaced the half-muscle of his decrepit left cheek and evoked a sensitivity he had not felt in life. He smirked and raised his hand, stopping short of touching his flesh. It felt unnatural, such a mundane action at odds with how he felt inside. He reconciled that with his growing strength and regeneration, humanity must grow too.

He strode forward, an army slowly growing behind him as people forgot their tasks, their thoughts slowing to the point of vegetation - who they were was gone, and they instead joined the rabble.

Was he starting to revert to a man? No, more than a creature at least - there were still canopic jars and essence of the damned to collect.

Ahead, a structure beckoned him, though why he was not fully aware. Nearby, a looming and imposing obelisk of Set stood tall, at its base now hundreds of idle locals, struck dumb with his latest plague. He had thought this plague into being, and so these modern crowds had turned to him for instruction.

There was no word for the building in front of him in his language; objects and incantations went to rest with their owners in eternal peace, or quite often found new life with descendants or grave robbers. A museum was unheard of in his time, he could sense something existing beyond their intended years within. Again, a small smile played upon as lips as he saw the synergy between what he was to find, and what he had become. He pressed onwards, drawn to the building, leaving swaying figures and Beni behind him.

Just as the breeze had felt foreign to him, the sight before him did not make sense. Cases of dusty, jumbled artefacts - what he would know as important amulets, everyday objects and treasured possessions - were strewn about with tags in a language he could not read. His eyes greedily drank in the relics around him, objects he had not thought of or laid eyes upon for as long as he could remember. He was reminded of late nights on balconies, long arduous rituals, the scent of perfume, bird calls that mingled with shouts and cries in his dead tongue. He felt the stillness of the desert and the reverence of the palace. The heavy atmosphere of his temple. What was this place, to these people? Were these displays of interest or mockery? Imhotep allowed himself to wonder why he had experienced such a wave of nostalgia.

None of his memories were here, nor were any of the canopic jars he sought. Nor was the woman - yet. His servant had told him they would come here - to the museum. His instinct told him he could collect his bounty, regenerate further and leave with the woman. But in due time.

He had been alone for far too long, yet in this room, he felt as much comfort as the undead could muster. Those ridden with the plague lingered outside, waiting for his command.

His gaze settled on a simple, unremarkable ushabti figure. It was no taller than 4 inches and had fallen on its side over the course of a day at the mercy of workers, tourists and visitors.

"This is unnatural…" he growled to no-one.

His robes swept past cabinets as he moved room to room, unsure of what he was looking for, but appalled at the sight of his heritage reduced to a confusing display of items both regal and crude. He barely cast a glance at the chariot of his murdered king.

Holy items, sacred statues past his gaze and then, most horrifyingly he came across the resting room.

Had Imhotep known a language but his own and Hebrew, he would have known that the resting room was where the mummies - in varying states of completes and many partially unwrapped - were laid bare. He took a breath. There were no degrees of separation between him, as he stood there in his semi-living glory and the aged bones around him.

It was wrong to view them, for them to have been moved. Outrage consumed him, and to an innocent bystander he would have appeared lost in thought and appreciating the collection. He was not, instead he moved slowly from body to body, in quiet contemplation, whispering furious incantations and prayers for the dead. He had forgotten himself, and momentarily he was High Priest of Osiris again, bestowing blessings and prayers to those who begged them of him. They could not speak, but their twisted limbs, torn wrappings and nameless faces cried out with the force of a thousand tongues. Where their names had been scrawled in hieroglyphics or hieratic, he breathed life into them again.

The injustice, that these people bore no curse yet were damned to never see the afterlife. In saying their names, he hoped to give them fresh life, ushering them forward to paradise after being so long forgotten and separated from their tombs, their possessions and their prayers.

It was not easy, falling back into a role he had once cherished. Did he hold any power, as he had in life, beyond the Hom-Dai? As overwhelmed as his limbo state would allow, Imhotep took himself outside, his prayers over. He would gather an army large enough to overpower all in his path; where better to congregate than at the base of Set?

"They are not here yet, master -"

Beni was ignored but felt foolish when the rumble of a car's engine alerted both men to the other party's arrival.

With a bellow, the creature who did not fully resemble a mummy cried out in anger, raising his arms to the heavens. He could hear a commotion, but did not want to inconvenience himself with the group just yet.

"More slaves," spat Imhotep to no-one.

His reflection amongst the exhibits was truly over. Gone was the past - his mind was firmly set on the here and now, his mission to resurrect his love and forge a future that was untouchable. As the cackles and bays of the zombified locals grew, he sent forth his plague again until there was an eerie silence, several miles around the museum. The bodies that once swayed and gathered at the base of Set had long departed after O'Connell's group, rushing towards the front doors.

Beni thought it safer to be in the museum building rather than out in the eerie streets. As he found his hiding place, his anxiety peaked upon hearing O'Connell and the girl talking. He flung himself downstairs before running into his master in a room south of the library.

"My Lord -" He started before he noticed that Imhotep was walking and muttering.

"Why are they here?" He demanded with a sweeping gesture, drawing Beni's attention to the relics, and not O'Connell's group as the simple servant first thought. "What purpose was served in disturbing them, denying them eternity and plundering their resting place? Do dwellers of this time have no respect for the dead?"

Beni blinked in confusion, his brain struggling to correlate Imhotep's inquiry without a command.

"It is a museum, High Priest."

"What is that?" Snapped Imhotep, not recognising the foreign word even as it was spoken in Hebrew.

"A place of great treasures, not unlike Hamunaptra. People come to steal, to view, to learn…"

Imhotep gave a curt nod, no longer wishing to discuss the desecration around him. "Those we seek will be caught. They wanted knowledge, they came here, to this shrine of the dead. We will go to them now."

And so Beni led Imhotep further into the building, confident that he had pleased the undead priest, not knowing that inside the eternally damned man a storm brewed. "The girl is here, Imhotep. She is with the others."

Rather than ruminate, the partially restored mummy ascended a staircase with the regality of a Pharaoh, seeking out the scent of Evelyn and the men. He would spend no more time looking for signs of his past; all he needed was her body, the jars and the ritual.

But the undead priest was not quick enough, and by the time he reached the top floor of macabre displays, the girl he needed and the men who protected her had left in a device he had never seen before. Beni's calls were useless, and in reply, the Egyptian screeched so loudly it shook the heavens. Instantaneously, he had become sand and was outside the building. He hadn't given himself one last glance at the relics.

He stormed towards Beni, no longer surrounded by plague-ridden locals, who instead cowered in confusion. In the blink of an eye, Beni was caught in a new storm, a very real ride that caught his throat, scratched his body and filled him with more unease.

He only awoke to sand, confusion and many pairs of feet.

Beni was on his hands and knees in the souk.

They could not follow the car, as they did not know its destination yet. Something had called out to Imhotep, something had beckoned him.

As Imhotep uttered incantations and added to his plagued army, what was left of his soul wished to punish him further. As body after body sought out O'Connell and his party, Imhotep prayed and grew in strength, the sensations of his death lessening but only after they came back to him one last time, full force.

He would not be a creature for much longer.

Before him was Daniels, dumbstruck, shooting wildly as the infected locals parted like the red sea. One man turned beacon. A flailing arm beckoning the priest's gaze towards his prize.

The last canopic jar.


End file.
